His Hour Come 'Round at Last
by L. C. Brotherton
Summary: Dean's year has come to a close. His final hour is at hand.


Dean breathed in deeply and took a last swallow from the cold longneck in his hand

**TITLE**: His Hour Come 'Round At Last

**AUTHOR**: L. C. Brotherton

**DISCLAIMER:** No copyright infringements intended. I just like to bring some of these characters out to visit my playground and promise to put them back when we've finished our game.

**RATING:** PG

**REVIEWS/FEEDBACK**: Yes, please! Flames will be used to toast marshmallows.

**. . . SUPERNATURAL . . .**

Dean breathed in deeply and took a final swallow from the cold longneck in his hand. Leaning against the warm hood of the Impala, this sunset was spectacular beyond belief, like a Bob Ross oil painting bigger than life splashed across the horizon. Pursing his lips, he glanced over at Sam, and decided against the snarky comment brewing in his mind about "let's paint a happy little cloud here and a sleepy little pine tree over there." His brother's eyes were fixed and staring at the sunset, his jaw tight, and Dean knew Sammy was probably in emo-angst hell right now, thinking about how this was Dean's last sunset and all.

The year had ended so much quicker than Dean had believed time could pass. One minute he was making a deal with a demon at the crossroads—his soul in exchange for Sammy's life restored to the body that had been knifed to death -- with payment due in one year. He'd blinked and his year was ended, so now, here they were, staring out at the Grand Canyon waiting for some hellhounds to rise up and complete the bargain. Dean had really wanted to do this alone, wanting to spare his brother the unpleasantries of his demise, but Sam had been so damned insistent, turning those pitiful, tear-filled eyes at him, that he had been powerless under that gaze.

There was much left unsaid between the two, but with the final hour grating to an end, now didn't seem the time for the chick-flick moment that Dean had always detested. Besides, the letter Sammy would eventually find in the glove box would do the talking that he'd bottled up over the last decade or so. There were enough emo highs and lows in the dozen or so pages he'd scribbled that he was actually glad he wouldn't have to face Sammy after he read it--far too embarrassing to see his little brother's face after Dean had dropped all the walls and did the whole baring his soul thing.

He chuckled, despite himself, thinking about his soul. In less than a half hour, it really wouldn't be his soul anymore. He wondered if Dad was waiting for him, on the rim of Hell, frowning and scowling over the foolish choice he'd made. He'd find out soon enough, and imagined there would be at least one scalding lecture on making John's own sacrifice to the Yellow-Eyed-Demon in exchange for Dean's life a complete waste of time and effort.

In the distance, thunder rumbled and echoed throughout the canyon and lightning sliced across the burnt umber sky. Sam glanced at Dean; the skies were free from clouds, and the lightning and thunder could only mean one thing. A chilling breeze scattered the dust at their feet and howling wafted in on the winds.

Dean fished the keys from his pocket and threw them to his brother. "Sammy, take care of my baby, and she'll take care of you," he said, running his hand over the gleaming black hood.

Mute, Sam nodded and shoved the keys in his pocket, turning on his heel as a feminine laugh broke the moment.

Dark hair cascaded in loose waves down her back as she moved in a slow, slinky walk toward them. She spun slowly, more breath taking than any supermodel to ever grace a catwalk, the rays of the dying sun caressing the black silk of the flowing gown she wore. "Lovely evening, boys," she purred, trailing a red-lacquered nail down the length of the Impala from trunk to hood.

"Careful on the paint," Dean hissed, more intent on possible damage to his beloved car than the pair of snarling hellhounds that coalesced into form on either side of the lovely demon.

She smiled brightly at him, green eyes luminous. "You'll have more to worry about than scraped paint in a few minutes, my boy," she said, her voice a husky remembrance of Kathleen Turner's younger days.

Dean squared his shoulders, noting with satisfaction that Sam had drawn a sigil of protection around himself, and nodded. "Let's get this over with," he growled.

"As you wish, my darling," she smiled, her eyes blazing with unnatural light. She raised a delicate hand toward him, and screamed as a wall of flame rose up between herself and the Winchesters.

"Not so fast, my sister," an imperious voice in dulcet male tones announced.

Although dusk had fallen, light shone all around them, the source being what appeared to be the most physically perfect man they'd ever seen that simply appeared between them and the demon. He had to be at least seven and a half feet tall, and seemed to be one of Michelangelo's masterpieces manifested before them in all the fierce beauty that only a master's hand could create. Actually, it wasn't so much the stark perfection—or even the fact that the man exuded light and a strange warmth--that really caught the boys' attention. It wasn't the golden chain mail armor or gleaming helmet, or even the flaming sword held in a tight grip. It had to be the huge wings, snow white in color that really caught the eye.

Neither Sam nor Dean could speak, and the glance they shared between themselves was incredulous. "Son of a….gun," Dean whispered hoarsely. "Sammy--I think that's an angel."

"My Lord has sent me to stay your hand, and I will assuredly send you back to the flaming pits of hell, if I must," was the solemn announcement, wings stretching as if to shield the brothers from the flaming wall

Dean cocked an eyebrow and waited; he was starting to like the way this conversation was headed.

"No!" the demon-woman howled. "You cannot interfere here. The bargain has been struck for a price and I am come to claim the payment for my lord. He made the deal freely at the crossroads, agreed to the terms of the contract. It is the way of things, as it has been from time immemorial," she scowled, and a weathered scroll appeared in her hand. She pointed the damning document at Dean. "The life of Sam Winchester restored to his body in exchange for the soul of Dean Winchester after one year's time."

Dean's hopes sank and the hounds growled, vicious teeth gleaming against the flames.

The warrior-angel laughed and sheathed his flaming sword, wings folding more compactly against his broad shoulders. "Well, that makes things different, doesn't it?" he reasoned. "Dean Winchester bargained for the resurrection of his brother, damning his soul to hell's fires for eternity?"

"Yes, you fool! That's what I said," she hissed.

The man cast a compassionate expression toward Dean. "Child, does this Fallen One speak the truth?" he asked, gentle sadness enveloping his words.

Dean nodded wordlessly. It was true, every word.

"Why, pray tell, would you make such a bargain with those that the Mighty One cast down from His glory eons ago?"

"For the sake of selfishness and fear," she shrieked, laughing in mocking waves. "I can't go on without you, Sammy," she cackled, her voice a duplicate of Dean's in those despairing moments when he realized that his brother was dead. "I only had one job and I screwed it up!" she continued in Dean's tormented voice, echoing the despair he'd felt on that night. "I didn't protect you, Sammy, didn't save you….I can't do this job without you."

"Stop it!" Dean shouted, unwilling to relive that pain.

"Bring Sammy back, and I'll give you whatever you want," the demon echoed. "You got what you wanted, darling Dean, and now it's time to pay the piper….in eternal torment, doing the bidding of my lord and king. You'll soon become what you've loathed and fought all these years," she taunted, her face turning uglier by the minute. "The first blood you'll be called upon to spill will belong to that abomination of misplaced power you call brother."

"I'll spill you right here, you skank," Dean growled, taking a step forward only to be thwarted by a wing suddenly in his way.

The warrior-angel turned a withering glare toward the female. "You will be silent," he commanded. Her mouth opened to speak, and she hissed when no words spilled out; he nodded in satisfaction. "Return from whence you came and be present on this plane no longer."

Angrily, she gestured with the scroll. He sighed. "Very well. Open your scroll and read aloud the proclamation, if it pleases you to do so."

She unrolled the parchment and her eyes grew wide. Anger flushed her cheeks.

"We are waiting," he said calmly.

Grinding her teeth, she glared at him. "This is a trick; nothing is written here! I saw the writing before; I know what it said. This changes nothing." She felt a twang of fear roll over her spirit; there was no power she knew of that could alter the contents of a contract such as this--unless the conditions had been changed by a higher level of authority, and she certainly hadn't been informed of such an event. If she returned without her quarry….there would be worse than hell to pay.

"Perhaps you should look again?" he offered. "What does it say?"

She looked down. If the body she'd stolen still had blood running through its veins, it would have turned to ice. Large, red letters formed unbelievable words, slowly forming as they rolled across the parchment. "Paid in full," she whispered.

"Don't think we heard that over here," Dean called out. "Fire and wings and stuff are killing the acoustics."

As if it were painful to hold, she threw the scroll down in the dirt. "It says 'paid in full," she shouted. "I don't understand!"

"You Fallen are to be pitied," the angel smiled sadly. "Arrogance and hate so fills your tiny minds that you fail to discern truth and lack understanding. Wisdom has never been, nor shall ever be your companion."

"We had a deal," she instead. "A binding contract," she howled, kicking at the now-worthless warrant, "with that one!" she spat, stabbing a finger toward Dean.

The laughter from the angel was like music and thunder at the same time. "There's nothing to understand, lost little sister. My Lord said once, 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for a friend.' In that dark moment, Dean Winchester committed not an act of selfishness in asking that life be granted again in full measure to his brother, but an act of love so selfless and pure that all of Heaven stood still and listened as my Master's tears fell on the floors of pearl.

"It was in that moment, that the beloved and merciful Master restored life to Sam…not due to some power misused at the whim of the Fallen." He regarded her patiently as she began to process this information.

Her mind whirled in confused horror. If this were true, and her own master hadn't restored life to Sam Winchester's body, then truly there was no deal. This past year, her master had waited and watched, his attention solely focused on the prize he would glean. A year wasted for nothing while the damnable forces of goodness and light grew stronger. A year wasted that could now become the undoing of all the plans! This lost year could cost them the delicately crafted war that had only just begun its mewling birthing cries.

The angel crossed his arms and nodded. "I see that you are beginning to understand."

"But he still agreed to relinquish his soul at the end of the year," she persisted.

"He was not free to give away that which was not his to give," was the reply and everyone stared at him in confusion. He smiled, radiating that warmth again, and gestured with his hand.

A scene was displayed before them. It was a small church, congregation assembled in scattered numbers throughout the mahogany pews, echoing the last refrain of "Just As I Am." Seven-year-old Dean held fast to three-year-old Sammy's hand as they stood in the front row, just in front of the worn pine pulpit.

Pastor Jim Murphy's kind baritone voice filled the sanctuary. "If you've felt the Lord calling to you, and would like to ask him to come into your heart today, let His precious blood wash away your sins--you only need to invite Him in. You can come to this altar, or pray where you are.

"Your prayer can be as simple as, 'Dear Jesus, please save me, come into my heart…"

Jim's voice continued on and little Dean peered one way and the other, watching people who went forward to kneel at the altar. Sammy squirmed restlessly, but Dean closed his eyes and bowed his head, lips moving soundlessly.

"Hey!" Dean crowed as the scene froze. "I forgot all about that!" he said in amazement.

The angel smiled. "You might have forgotten that moment, Dean Winchester, but my Master certainly didn't. Your name was written that moment in the Lamb's Book of Life. Your soul was given back to the Master in the moment," he explained, "which is why that contract now reads 'paid in full.'"

With an angry howl, the demon-woman and the hellhounds vanished into a billowing spiral of black fog. Sam and Dean stared at one another in amazement and a slow smile crossed both their faces. The angel smiled at them and looked heavenward, wings spreading wide.

"Um, what happens now?" Sam asked hesitantly.

The great wings flapped and the magnificent being rose into the air. "You continue to fight the good fight, my boy, until the war is won."

With that, there was a loud crack of thunder and light filled the sky, and he was gone.

"How about that, Sammy? I'm not going to hell and you're not gonna die--well, today, anyway!" Dean shouted, rushing his brother in an uncharacteristic moment, throwing his arms around him in a bear hug as he laughed.

It was a chick-flick moment, and Sam was elated to be in the middle of it, holding onto his brother, thumping him on the back.

"And you know what else, Sammy?" Dean laughed, finally breaking the celebratory embrace, wiping at his eyes and plotting how he'd get that incriminating letter out of the glove box before Sammy rooted around in there and found it.

Sam wiped at his own eyes. "What, Dean?"

"I want my keys back, dude."


End file.
